


On razor's edge

by Beginte



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, the inherent eroticism and trust of shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26567344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: “I need you to shave me!” Jaskier proclaims with an edge of madness sharpening his voice, because the gods-damn itchy atrocity on his face is driving him out of his wits.Case in point, he just asked Geralt to put his hands (beautiful, naked hands) on his skin. His face. His throat. And touch him. Repeatedly. What a splendid idea.Or: Jaskier's hands are healing after a hunt and Geralt takes care of his itchy stubble. Feelings happen.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 86
Kudos: 776





	On razor's edge

When a bandit’s knife sliced open his calf, Jaskier wasn’t too bothered. That is to say, afterwards. After he’d panicked and whinged about the pain while Geralt dispatched the robbers. After Geralt patched him up, with such slowness and care that spoke of him being out of practice, of not having wielded a needle and stitches in a long while, so painfully at odds with the scars marking his skin that Jaskier almost screamed his heartbreak.

So... after that. After he slept it off, courtesy of Geralt’s pain-numbing salve and soporific tea. Because it’s a leg. If the scar twinges in bad weather sometime into the future, Jaskier will be fine with it. Oh, he’ll complain and vocally so, and Geralt will roll his eyes at him but slow down Roach’s pace nonetheless because he cares, but Jaskier will be fine.

Because it’s not one of his hands.

So when a splash of scalding-hot molten wax sends pain lancing up his hands as he tries to grasp the amulet Geralt needs to crush in order to banish the creature strangling him, it’s another matter entirely.

He does grab the amulet, he doesn’t scream when the knocked-over bowl spills hot, flaming wax over his hands, and he tosses the amulet to Geralt who manages to tear one hand away from pushing back the creature and crush the damn thing in his fist like it’s a biscuit. But after that...

“Ah! Ah, fuck, oh gods, _fuck!”_

Jaskier shouts, tears springing from his eyes as his skin scalds and burns, livid, even the very air around it a torture.

“Jaskier.”

He sobs, furious with pain, furious because while he’s raging he has no room to be so terribly afraid. He can feel the hard edges of fear beginning to poke through, cold and nauseating, because no, not his hands—

“Fuck!”

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s hands close gently around his forearms, far from his scalded wrists, keeping his arms still. “Jaskier. You’ll be fine. Do you understand?”

Jaskier hisses and swears again, voice hitching as his skin scorches and rapidly reddens under the drying wax.

“ _I promise you_ ,” says Geralt, with enough force to flatten a mountain, and Jaskier finally tears his gaze away from his blistering hands to meet Geralt’s eyes. “I promise you,” says Geralt again, and Jaskier can’t help but nod as pain-hot tears leak involuntarily from his eyes.

Geralt is quiet when he leads Jaskier out of the old mausoleum and into the dawning sunlight where Roach stretches her neck to reach tiny apples on a wild tree’s branches. He’s quiet when he sits Jaskier down, fetches the saddlebag containing potions and bandages. He’s quiet when he takes out a bottle of liquid and drips it onto a cloth which he then uses to ease the crusted wax off Jaskier’s hands.

Jaskier isn’t quiet.

“Ow! Oh, fuck!”

Geralt frowns, but not at all angry.

“Sorry,” he grunts. In fact, he looks miserable.

“What? It’s not your— Thank you, by the way.”

Somehow, Geralt manages to look like he was kicked. Except no, if Geralt got kicked he’d look furious. This is... not that.

“Jaskier...” he whispers, and then frowns again. “You shouldn't— _I_ should— Thank you. For what you did. For helping me.”

One hand squeezes Jaskier’s forearm, ever so gently, and a bloom of warmth nests in Jaskier’s bone, balming away the edge of agony sizzling on his hands.

“Well... of course, Geralt,” is all he can think to say.

“Your hands will be fine,” Geralt tells him with an earnest look before going back to surprisingly gentle care; he puts away the cloth, takes out a jar of cloyingly sweet-smelling salve. “This will heal the skin completely, there won’t even be a trace. It— it will take a while. Ten days, a fortnight maybe. I’ve. Never used it on someone who wasn’t a witcher. But. It will heal your hands completely. You'll play and write as normal.”

Jaskier nods, the shard of fear in his chest melting away under the warmth of Geralt’s eyes.

“All right. Yeah. All right. Thanks.”

Geralt grunts and goes about applying the salve. It stings like hell and Jaskier hisses, bites his lip against the searing pain.

“This will be my finest ballad, just you watch,” he babbles to distract himself. “The wounded artist nursed back to health by his loyal muse. Tavern-goers all over the Continent will shower us with coin. Say, Geralt, have you ever played the lute?”

“No.” Geralt’s tone is dry like sand, but just as warm.

“Shame. Still – ten days, I can wait. Yep. I. Can. Wait.”

“Could be longer.”

“Not helping, Geralt!”

The salve is slimy and greyish-green, and by the time Geralt is done, Jaskier’s hands look like he was drowned roughly a week ago. Even so – it must be magical, because the pain is dimming by the minute, soon settling into an echo: still present and bothersome, but nowhere near the searing agony of before.

“The fingers of your left hand seem better than the right,” Geralt tells him as he wraps his hands in bandages carefully, so carefully that Jaskier wants to hit him and scream for never taking this much care of himself. “The tips are completely untouched.”

“Oh. Good.”

Could he teach himself to become ambidextrous in the space of one day? Probably not. Maybe three. Yes, three sounds doable. How hard can it be!

* * *

Turns out, pretty fucking hard. The fingers of his left hand are indeed fine enough for him to be able to feed himself and take a piss without mortifying assistance, and four days later he can painstakingly scrawl crooked scratches that resemble letters close enough, but that’s about it. Any activity with his right hand results in agony.

They keep on travelling. Geralt had offered a possibility of staying in the village while Jaskier recovers, the payment for the creature and Jaskier’s earlier performances enough to see them through, but Jaskier declined. The village is quaint and its people lovely, but Jaskier would go stir-crazy stuck in one place without any real use of his hands. When they're travelling, he can at least admire the scenery, be in motion, unconstrained by monotony. That, and inside him there's something hard and determined, refusing to be a burden that will tie Geralt down, restrict him, however temporarily. He simply cannot.

He prefers to move on anyway. The weather is beautiful, he still has his voice, and Geralt's salve works wonders. The healing does seem to indeed be taking longer than Geralt initially suggested, because nine days go by and Jaskier's right hand still isn't up to most tasks, but the progress is still remarkable. He mostly rode on Roach for the first couple of days, but walking makes it easier to forget the stinging of his hands, so Roach enjoys some light travel, following them both as they walk.

Geralt has decided not to take on any more contracts until Jaskier has healed, so they travel at a leisurely pace along the Pontar. Summer is still early enough to be mild, the river flows sleepy and lazy after the rush of springtime snowmelt, and the sun dapples the grass through occasional trees.

So Jaskier is fine.

Except there's one thing he hadn't counted on.

“Stop it,” growls Geralt. “You’ll make yourself bleed.”

“But it itches!” whinges Jaskier, thoroughly scratching back and forth over one particularly infuriating patch of the atrocity covering his face, stuck in a disgustingly awkward stage between stubble and burgeoning beard. “Fucking— oh gods, is it lice? Geralt, can you get lice in your beard?”

“Wouldn’t know. Even lice have more sense than to stick to witchers.”

Right, Jaskier is definitely addressing this later, because Geralt can’t keep doing this, saying things that stab into Jaskier’s heart like a knife and then not even look back at the damage he leaves behind as he shrugs and keeps on towards the sunset. But right now, he has a serious issue at hand (oh, har-har) and it requires urgent attention.

“I need to shave,” he declares.

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“What do you mean, what?” grumbles Geralt.

“You don’t think I should shave?”

“Jaskier, I didn’t say anything.”

“Well, we both know _you_ look very fine with stubble or a beard, my dear friend, but it seems I have too delicate a constitution for it.”

Geralt snorts. “You knocked out two men's teeth in a bar fight just last month.”

“Yes, well, it itches,” replies Jaskier with incredible dignity. “And if it _is_ lice, I can’t risk it spreading to my hair. My hair, Geralt!”

“It’s not lice.”

“I need you to shave me!” Jaskier proclaims with an edge of madness sharpening his voice, because the gods-damn itchy atrocity on his face is driving him out of his wits.

Case in point, he just asked Geralt to put his hands (beautiful, _naked_ hands) on his skin. His face. His throat. And touch him. Repeatedly. What a splendid idea.

The fucking atrocity itches again. Jaskier scratches it furiously. Geralt sighs and stops abruptly, levelling Jaskier with a flat stare.

“Er...”

“Sit over there,” Geralt tells him, pointing at an opportune boulder perched near the river’s bank.

“What, now?” The prospect startles Jaskier for some reason, makes him feel naked. Except he’s usually confident when naked.

Geralt cocks his head. “Could be fleas.”

“Yep, no, now is good, thank you!”

Jaskier scurries towards the boulder and tries not to listen to Geralt's footsteps as he follows. This is fine, he tells himself while Geralt ties Roach to a nearby tree and goes through a saddlebag. This is fine, this is _necessary_. Jaskier can only just about hold a pen in his right hand, but he can't really apply pressure without a flare of pain. A razor is out of the question – he'd slit his own throat, and wouldn't that be a pathetic way to die.

So it's fine. He will take a deep breath and sit still while Geralt stands intimately close and lays his hands on his face. Geralt, his best friend, with whom Jaskier is madly in love, having managed by some insane miracle to keep it a secret this far. Or perhaps just to keep it quiet enough for Geralt to ignore. Geralt, to the thoughts of whose hands (with and without black leather gloves) Jaskier has jerked off on more than one occasion. Geralt the witcher who can smell lust.

Actually, a slit throat doesn't sound that bad. Sounds quicker.

Jaskier sits, the tip of his boot twitching. The boulder is hot from the sun, warming his skin; he swallows; Geralt locates the shaving kit and scoops water from the river into a bowl. And then he looks at Jaskier over his shoulder and comes over.

Geralt has touched him many times. He touches him quite often, actually: passing things back and forth, nudging him, setting up camp, pulling him back from danger, and in a thousand other ways. They share a life, they share baths and beds when coin is low. Touch is common.

But this... this will be deliberate. And thorough.

Suddenly, Jaskier's doublet feels confining; the collar doesn't quite reach where Geralt is about to touch him, and the not-yet-touched skin burns sweet in anticipation. He squirms.

The boulder is tall enough for Geralt to only have to bend a little when he spreads lather over Jaskier's overgrown stubble. Jaskier instinctively squeezes his eyes shut like he does when washing his hair, and he could swear Geralt huffs out a fond breath. When he opens his eyes again, Geralt holds the razor and comes that one last step closer, blotting out all the air between them.

"All right?" he rumbles.

"Yeah."

He tries to breathe evenly, tries to rein in the mad, hare-like hammering of his heart. Fuck, Geralt definitely can hear it, can probably smell the thrill spilling all over Jaskier’s skin...

And then he cradles Jaskier’s head with one hand, tilts it ever so slightly to a suitable angle, his touch so sure yet so gentle... Something inside Jaskier falls thunderously apart and leaves him raw and exposed.

He swallows, and Geralt’s thumb jumps where it was resting on Jaskier’s throat.

Oh, fuck...

Geralt glides the razor along Jaskier’s skin, a movement so smooth it would be a sweet note if it were a sound; the blade is lethally sharp as it scrapes over the coarse hairs, and Jaskier’s skin tingles, tingles, tingles...

Geralt rinses off the razor and applies it again, gliding a stripe right next to the previous one, layering slide after slide of touch, sharp and steady. Every muscle in Jaskier's body is tight. He feels hot. He feels so fucking hot, his chemise and doublet stifling. Geralt’s face is right there, he can fucking _feel_ the echo of Geralt’s breath on the freshly shaved patch of his skin, and now he’ll have to live with that knowledge for the rest of his life. With Geralt’s fingers on the back of his neck, dipped into his hair, pressing ever so slightly, ever so surely, now and then, to steer him a little way this, a little way that, and Jaskier goes, easy and willing. Yes. Exquisite. Geralt’s eyes—

Jaskier swallows, thumbs the signet ring around his finger, tries to look at the sky beside Geralt’s pulled-back white hair, but he can’t see anything through the eager buzzing in his brain. Geralt’s eyes burn like the sun, intent on Jaskier’s skin.

Fuck, he’d like them intent on other parts of his body—

No, no, shit, shut up. He can smell it, oh gods, he can probably smell it...

The razor glides again, brushing so close to a sensitive spot he likes having kissed, and Jaskier’s thigh twitches.

“You’re good at this,” he remarks, desperately steadily, through the urge to fidget and _feel_.

Geralt’s fingers, pressed to where his words reverberate in his throat, twitch.

“Hmm,” he says, something coarse sticking to the edges of his voice. “I—" he clears his throat, hand steady as he glides the razor again, the blade scraping right over that sensitive spot, and Jaskier wants to close his eyes and _moan_. Geralt rinses off the blade. Clears his throat again. “I taught Lambert how to shave.”

“Oh,” says Jaskier, the thought soft enough to smooth out the edges of his desperation. “That’s nice.”

“Hmm.”

It almost feels quiet and normal for a moment. But then Geralt tilts Jaskier's head again and scrapes the razor along his jaw, and everything inside Jaskier scatters and burns; his skin feels too tight to contain the need licking his blood, filling his chest as he tries his utmost to bite back the sound starting to tremble in his throat.

“Stop squirming,” growls Geralt, so soft and so sudden and so close in Jaskier’s ear that Jaskier startles into stillness. “I’m not...” Geralt’s lips press into a hard line, eyebrows bowed with something between frustration and terrible, terrible sadness. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

He says it so quietly and so warmly, and yet something inside Jaskier sinks and keeps on sinking until he almost cries.

But this is important; this might be the most important thing Jaskier ever does in his entire life. So he gathers what pathetic scraps he has left of wits and pushes them all into that place in his brain where the world is made still with the unhappiness on Geralt’s face. He looks in Geralt’s eyes, silently forces him to meet and hold his gaze, welcomes the little pools of gold and doesn’t allow them to escape. He touches Geralt’s wrist where he holds the razor close but without touching Jaskier’s skin.

“I know,” he tells Geralt, and he doesn’t even have to call on his years of training to keep his voice steady – the truth sees to that.

Something unclenches in Geralt’s shoulders, something ever so slightly smoothes out on his face.

It’s a little easier, for a while. Geralt scrapes the blade under Jaskier’s nose, puts out an ungodly itch on his chin, and if Jaskier keeps thinking about the sadness that flashed in Geralt’s eyes, he can almost sit still as Geralt’s hand keeps resting on his neck, supporting his head with this much care.

And then Geralt’s knuckles tip his head back, exposing his throat, and Jaskier almost climbs out of his own skin with need, because he needs, he needs Geralt’s mouth where the blade’s edge sings up his throat. Jaskier’s mouth falls open of its own accord and he can feel his own breath, hot and shaky and soft like velvet as it passes over his lips.

Fuck, he can hear it, Geralt can hear it, that tremor of need and raw, naked want; Jaskier presses his lips closed and swallows.

His apple bobs against the razor’s blade. Geralt makes a soft sound meant to soothe, his thumb brushing placation into Jaskier’s skin. Because Geralt can smell his nerves and his worry, thinks Jaskier is scared, and he’s _so kind_. Jaskier now understands how an animal can bite off its own limb when caught in a snare, because his skin crawls and he is unable to decide which is worse: letting Geralt keep thinking he’s uneasy because of the blade at his neck, or to let him see the want Jaskier desperately tries to stay afloat in.

Soon enough, there might not be a choice left at all; the blade strokes up his neck again, up his throat, right there where a lover's kiss burns the sweetest, and Jaskier drowns. Oh, gods take him. This is pleasure. This is torture.

He closes his eyes, which is a terrible mistake, but there seems to be no undoing it. Up, goes the blade again, its edge so sharp; Jaskier's body sings to match the note. Trust burns and flares through his blood, hot enough to become joy, and _that_ , he hopes Geralt can smell _that_.

One last skim of the blade; Jaskier is almost relieved and almost bereft.

Geralt makes a quiet sound deep in his throat; Jaskier's eyes fly open, one spell broken only for another to immediately take hold, because Geralt is watching him, his fingers brushing long and slow up Jaskier's throat. Checking for any missed spots, Jaskier tells himself maniacally, _checking for any missed spots, perfectly normal_.

With one more lingering stroke of fingers, Geralt takes his eyes off Jaskier and sits back on his haunches to rinse the razor out in the bowl. There is air again and Jaskier tries to breathe; he watches the tip of Geralt's head as he busies himself reaching for the bag again. He can see the black tie holding Geralt's hair back and he wants to ease it out, run his fingers through silver strands, and tie them back again, tuck them into place with care.

Geralt stands up again and lifts a piece of cloth to dry Jaskier off and wipe away the smudges of lather. Through the coarse fabric his hands cup Jaskier's face, drag firmly over his cheeks, thumbs pressing into the cheekbones, then rub down along the lines of his jaw, sweep over his throat.

“There,” Geralt says, in the same soft and pleased tone Jaskier uses when he’s done patching up his wounds, and Jaskier’s heart rears in his chest, straining and reaching and longing. “All done.”

Jaskier’s words, each time, to the letter. Tone and all. And Jaskier... Jaskier wants him so much – loves him so much – that he can hardly speak.

"Thank you," he whispers, the words sticky in his throat; Geralt nods and goes to put everything away.

Jaskier sits on the boulder, counts to five as he breathes, watches Geralt's hands. His movements are steady and slow. Too slow. Like he's trying. Jaskier's heart, a mad, hare-brained thing, flutters in his chest. He stands up, legs wobbly in this world that feels brand new and brimming. He takes another breath. Geralt is standing before him, sunlight soft on his face. There's something warm and bright thrumming in Jaskier's throat, something he desperately wants to say, but the trouble is, he doesn't know what that something is. He just knows he needs to say it, so he stands there, letting his mouth open.

The sun warms his face. Roach's breath huffs soft nearby.

Geralt’s eyes find Jaskier’s lips. Oh...

Jaskier swallows, his mouth suddenly fever-dry as his head spins; when he licks his lips, it’s only half-deliberate.

Geralt’s own lips part in response, golden eyes dark and flickering away.

Oh, gods, please...

Jaskier has always been a chancer. When his family tried to cage him and shape him into something he was not, he left them behind and chanced out into the world with nothing but love of the horizon. He wished to make music, and so he did, carrying on through indifference and appreciation alike. When he met Geralt... when he met Geralt sulking in that dim corner all on his own, something in Jaskier’s heart unfurled and made a decision, and Jaskier chanced everything on it to follow him.

And now he balances his entire fortune, everything he holds dear in this life, on this one thing, thinner than a knife’s edge –a razor’s edge – and reaches out to let his hand touch Geralt’s cheek.

His fingertips brush skin, just above the jaw, where Geralt’s own evening stubble is beginning to show through, and gently, maybe gentler than he’s ever done anything in his life, he turns Geralt to face him again.

And Geralt goes, pliant, as if Jaskier’s touch is an irresistible guiding force.

Please, oh Melitele, please let him be right about this one, single, precious thing...

Heart hammering, Jaskier moves slowly, so slowly, giving Geralt all the time in the world to think and pull away if he wants. But Geralt’s lips part on a tiny breath, and he hesitantly tilts his head just so, and the trembling courage of it wedges between Jaskier's ribs.

The kiss Jaskier presses to his lips is soft and gentle; chaste even. Geralt doesn’t really respond, but that is just fine, and Jaskier strokes his thumb over Geralt’s cheek to soothe before gently pulling away, giving the lead over to Geralt. And Geralt... Geralt follows him, catches his lips in another kiss, and Jaskier smiles into it as Geralt’s hands settle on his cheeks, fingers curling into his hair.

There he is...

Geralt kisses softly, searchingly, and Jaskier meets all of it with a resounding _yes, yes_ singing in his blood.

_He can hear it_ , Jaskier hopes. _He can hear it_.

* * *

Later, when daylight has turned golden with the lateness of the afternoon, and when they’re lying together in the shade of a tree with the Pontar gliding lazily near their feet, Jaskier tugs on a strand of silver-white hair and looks at Geralt in besotted admonishment.

“All this time. You didn’t say anything.”

Geralt shrugs, noses at Jaskier’s clean-shaven cheek, presses a kiss there.

“I never say anything. _You_ didn’t say anything. And you always say everything.”

“Well,” Jaskier huffs in offence soft like a cloud. “Not _always_.”

“So it seems.” He brings Jaskier’s left hand to his lips, kisses the skin where it's healthy and brand new and pink with care.

"And besides," Jaskier adds over the tightness of love stuck in his chest, "I thought you could... you know. Smell it and whatnot."

"Whatnot."

"Geralt—"

"Well. You just... often smell in love. And horny."

"And can you blame me?" Jaskier makes a grand gesture at Geralt's... everything. "So, what, you thought it was just me being me?"

Geralt hums, and Jaskier decides that he never looked lovelier than right now, with a pink tinge spread across his cheeks and his eyes dipping to where he cradles Jaskier's still-sore right hand.

"That... and I thought it was... me."

"Oh. Well, that's immensely flattering, my dear. But I'm afraid it also means we're both complete idiots."

"It does," says Geralt philosophically, meeting Jaskier's eyes. "And yet – here we are."

**Author's Note:**

> They're emotionally sweet idiots and I love them. Come scream with me about their love!


End file.
